The Detective and His Pathologist
by beansprout1997
Summary: Sherlock cannot (repeat CANNOT) stand it a moment longer, and seeks out our favourite pathologist to tell her just that.


He was livid. John had deduced this from his pacing, his refusal to sit, to eat, to talk. His jaw was clenched so tight; John feared he might snap his pearly white teeth. His brow was furrowed and eyes hard as he marched to the beat of his apparent rage, and there wasn't a bloody thing John could do about it. So he called Greg Lestrade, who promptly hung up on him, informing him that after 2 in the morning, Sherlock was his problem, and his alone.

Poor John was mere seconds from tearing his sandy coloured hair out of his thumping head, when fate intervened in the form of Mrs. Hudson. She burst in to their flat and stalked right up to Sherlock, stopping him in his well-worn tracks. John swore she had a halo of light around her head just then.

"You." Mrs Hudson started, a neatly manicured finger stabbing the tall, dark and brooding man's firm chest. "It is 2:28 AM. You are stomping around this blasted flat and keeping me from sleep. You are a clever man Sherlock, but tell me does this seem like a clever thing to be doing?" Sherlock to his credit, looked slightly ashamed as he shook his head.

"If I hear one more noise out of you tonight, I will concoct a plan to murder you so complicated and- might I add- satisfying, that not even you could solve it." She was not a happy woman. Sherlock believed with every ounce of his being that she would follow through with that threat if he did not comply and shut up.

Mrs Hudson proceeded to turn to John, give him a tired smile, a kiss on the forehead and a wave, as she made her way back out of the flat. Sherlock in turn sunk down onto the sofa with a sigh. He lifted his hand and pressed his fingertips together under his nose, his 'thinking pose' as John liked to call it. They sat like that in silence for a few moments before the good doctor thought it safe to speak.

"So. What's wrong?" He asked carefully. Sherlock's head jerked in his direction, as if he was only just made aware of the fact that John was in the room.

"I don't know" the great detective said simply. "If I knew I wouldn't be thinking on it at 2 AM and apparently keeping everyone up. Now if you are done with your pointless questions, I suggest you go to bed." With that he returned to his pose unmoving and stoic. All John could do was roll his eyes towards the skies and take himself to bed.

The clock struck 3 o'clock and Sherlock stood up, a sudden wave of clarity washing over him. How could he be so stupid? For weeks something had been niggling at the back of his busy mind, eating away at his coherent thoughts until he was consumed by the annoyance. This little niggle, this itch at the back of his head- he knew what it was now. It was his pathologist.

It started off small. She bought herself new shoes. They were black patent leather, with a small heel that gently extended her leg and gave her small frame a little height. O f course he had noticed it (He was Sherlock Holmes, he noticed everything), but finding it utterly insignificant to his world, it was deleted.

Then it was a new perfume. Usually Molly Hooper would favour an almost sickly sweet fruity perfume, mango or something like that, but some weeks ago, Sherlock had noticed a change in the air- quite literally. It wasn't flowery or fruity, not overpowering or sweet. It was lavender, set off by some kind of wood (he would have worked out it was cedar eventually) and there was also a hint of cinnamon. He remembered thinking it strange at the time but with a case on the brain, this little change was once again deleted.

Soon enough pretty summer dresses and skirts filled the space Molly's frumpy jumpers and unflattering trousers had once occupied. She found a shade of lipstick that suited her perfectly and it showed. She had even gone as far as to dye her long hair a smidge darker, and it worked for her in a way no one could imagine. Sherlock- now searching his memory for traces of these changes- could only surmise that he was seeing, but not observing Molly Hooper. She was a whole new woman.

The curly haired consulting detective pondered this until the light of day graced London, casting long and effortlessly beautiful shadows over the city he called home.

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At 6 AM approximately 8 miles across the city, Molly Hooper herself was just leaving her flat. Hair (a shade darker) up in her signature ponytail, the doctor of the dead patted her ginger cat Toby on the head and told him to be good, grabbed her Mac and swept out the door, locking it behind her. A small smile graced her pretty face as she ambled slowly down the stairs of her flats. Her coat slung over her arm and her bag on her shoulder, she wandered out into the blissfully warm Monday morning. Today she had selected a pretty cream coloured dress that ended just above her knees, pattered elegantly with little red flower petals in a kind of water coloured fashion. She matched this expertly with nude heels (but being cautious had put nude ballet flats in her bag as well). All in all she was not the same woman she was 7 years ago when Sherlock had met her. She wasn't even the same woman she had been 3 years ago when she had helped Sherlock fake is death. She was finally finding herself.

It wasn't about the clothes or the makeup. It was a change in herself. She had become far too wrapped around the unrequited crush she had on Sherlock, and her work and her loneliness. It had been like a cocoon, keeping her swaddled up and away from the world. Well the cocoon had finally opened. She still harboured feelings for a certain consulting detective, but no longer tripped over herself, or stuttered in his presence. She had more respect for herself than that, and refused to embarrass herself anymore. Molly no longer spent all her time cooped up in the lab or the morgue, instead choosing to work normal hours, eat lunch with the rest of the staff and give herself free time on occasion. She still worked till the early hours of the morning sometimes, if she was needed for a case, but far less frequently than she used to. She absolutely refused to isolate herself from others because of her shyness or awkwardness. So she found a social life, and friends in the staff at St. Barts and even her neighbours. She smiled to herself as she boarded the tube to take her to work. She had grown and progressed, still Molly, and yet still so much more.

She arrived at the doors of her beloved place of work by twenty to seven, and was about to enter and start her day when she spotted one Sherlock Holmes standing just shy of the doors. She moved to shoot him a smile in greeting but paused upon seeing his stormy mood. Quirking her head to the side, she continued on chirping a quick hello to him before entering the building. She felt more than saw him follow her, and silently they made their way down to Molly's office. She went through the motions of hanging up her coat, washing her hands and putting on her white lab jacket, all the while very aware of Sherlock's being there quietly. They proceeded to make their way to the morgue where the first cadavers of the day was waiting to have their secrets uncovered by the talented pathologist.

After snapping on bright blue latex gloves, Molly turned around to address the still oddly hushed man.

"So, what shall it be today Sherlock? Some thumbs, eyeballs? A head?" She asked waggling her eyebrows to lighten the mood. Her attempts to interest him in his usual experiments went down like a lead balloon.

"That's not what I'm here for."

She swallowed and the silence returned, thick and heavy while she patiently waited for him to elaborate. Mid way through the first autopsy of the day, all hell broke loose. Molly with bone saw in hand was about to take a marrow sample from the gentleman before her (She suspected a kind of cancer had topped him, but had to do tests to be sure) when the bio-hazard alarm went off. Her pretty brown eyes widened for all of a second before she took action, putting the saw down and laying a layer of plastic over the body. As she listened to the doors of the morgue seal {automatic quarantine she noted internally) she ripped the surgical mask off her face and threw it in a large orange bin. Next went her pristine white coat and her shoes. At this point she realised Sherlock had not moved, and rolled her eyes.

"Sherlock, as uncomfortable as it makes me to have to ask this, it may save your life. Strip. Clothes in the orange bin, then into the decontamination shower". Her voice was firm, and it spurred him into action. Before she knew it he was down to his socks and boxers, while she was still struggling with the zip of her pretty dress. He sighed and in one deft- and very unexpected move had her dress unzipped and on the floor. He proceeded to walk to the other side of the morgue to the two decontamination showers and pulled the curtain around his. Within seconds she heard the water start to run. One sock, then two were thrown over the top of the bright orange plastic, then the boxers. Molly's face was a teeming scarlet as she collected these items and deposited them into the bin, trying desperately not to think about where they'd been. Soon she was in much the same attire as he, and went to work scrubbing with the harsh soap provided. Still not a word was spoken.

That was until Sherlock pulled the curtain that separated their showers open. Molly gasped and tried to hide her body, but Sherlock wasn't looking at anything other than her eyes.

"Sherlock wha-"

"You're different". He stated loudly over the rush of water.

"What do you mean?"

"You're hair, your clothes, your perfume. Why?"

Molly searched his eyes, trying to ascertain why he'd want to know, why he'd be even vaguely interested.

"I felt like it I suppose. I didn't want to be a mousy little pathologist with no life outside of dead people. So I got myself a life".

He noted with some amazement that she didn't stutter of falter in her speech. When did that stop?

"I suppose you don't like it…" she said looking down at her feet. She absently noticed that the red nail polish on her toes was chipped.

"On the contrary Molly" he said, fingers on her chin to make her look at him, "I do like it. Very much."

Before she knew what was happening their lips were touching, and they were holding on tight to each other. Doubt however wriggled at the back of the (awfully surprised) doctors head. She had had to change to get him to like her. He was never interested before. But as usual consulting detective Sherlock Holmes could read her like an open book.

"Since that Christmas party" he muttered to her quietly. She shot him a questioning look and he answered; "I have been completely and utterly in love with you since that Christmas party at 221B Baker Street, where I was unforgivably cruel to you. The reason I was, was because I was jealous that you were going somewhere on a date, to see someone else after the party. When I discovered that was not true, I was too embarrassed to tell you how much I wanted that gift to be mine. You and you alone have been on my mind every waking moment since then, driving me near to madness."

Molly was left breathless by his speech. That party was years ago, long before the fall. He had liked her since then? {She dared not even think the word 'love'}. She was completely unsure of what to do now. She never imagined this in her wildest dreams.

"Say you'll be mine Molly Hooper and end my suffering. I know I'm not one for sentiment or feelings, but I can promise you I will try. I will try for you."

His baritone voice-thick with emotion- rang true, and it was steeled with determination.

She gave a slightly dazed nod and suddenly they were kissing again, years of pent up love and affection poured into the most emotional moment of their lives to date. They came up for air, their foreheads resting against each other, just looking into each other's eyes. The water had shut off automatically long ago, but they couldn't bring themselves to move. That's how the rest of the hospital staff found them moments later- quite naked, and for the first time ladies and gentlemen- **_quite_** in love.

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><p><em>So just a little Sherlolly fluff that wouldn't get out of my head! Hope you enjoyed it please review, and let me know if you would like more sherlolly fluff and I'll do my best,<em>

_With all my authorly love, Beansprout1997 xxx_


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